NationStates Jolt Archive

(OOC) Ok, this is a forum for Members of the MARITIME REGION ONLY!
If you're a maritimer, you can stop in and say hi though :)

(IC) = In Character, i.e. "The Isthmus had just finalized a trade agreemnet . . . "
(OOC) = Out of Character "Wow, the Isthmus really sucks doesn't it? What are you all doing tonight?"

The Wiki Wiki Encyclopaedia Entries are here:

The Maritimes: http://ns.goobergunch.net/wiki/index.php/The_Maritimes

The Isthmus: http://ns.goobergunch.net/wiki/index.php/The_Isthmus

Hectanooga: http://ns.goobergunch.net/wiki/index.php/Hectanooga

Gillises: http://ns.goobergunch.net/wiki/index.php/Gillises

Lalaii: http://ns.goobergunch.net/wiki/index.php/Lalaii

Tirean na Mara: http://ns.goobergunch.net/wiki/index.php/Tirean_na_Mara

Better_Than_You (Better Known as the Dictarship of Adam :P): http://ns.goobergunch.net/wiki/index.php/Better_Then_You

Allisonwonderland: http://ns.goobergunch.net/wiki/index.php/Allisonwonderland

(IC) *Isthmus News*

The MacDonald of the Isthmus is in an uproar over the Change in leadership of the Lordship of Tirean na Mara.

Already Clan Donald is trying to influence the governing body of the Isthmus, the Council of the Isthmus and Isles, to declare some sort of sanction against Tirean na Mara.

Clan Donald holds 3 seats on the twelve member council, MacDonald of the Isthmus, MacDonald of Cuillin, and MacDonald of Strathaird, the three chiefs of Clan Donald on the Mainlaind, with MacDonald of the Isthmus being the High Chief of Clan Donald Within the Isthmus's Borders.

Abbot MacFhionghuin, the leader of the Council, urges caution in this regard, and wishes to wait how the situation develops. However, Clan Fingon has been at Odds with Clan Donald since the Statutes of Mishnish granted the Gaelic Church powers Temporal as well as Powers Spiritual in 1232. As such, any decline in the purity of Clan Donald, of any branch, would not disapoint him in the slightest.

The reason for this uproar is the strict stance that the Council takes on Primogeniture. As such, MacDonald views this as an insult to his clan, even though this simply appears to be a misunderstanding of the cultural differences between the two nations.

This has been a foreign language radio broadcast by the Saxon Heritage Board.

OOC: Sorry Aandra, I may not have explained this to you...all Lords of the Lands of the Sea are descendants of Donald Dubh, and thus of the line of clan MacDonald. However, the rules of Derbfine have been ressurrected, and the Lordship can pass to a person without the MacDonald name, so long as they have a claim under Derbfine. Cenel Galbrath, long a small tuatha, built a massive fortification over the centuries on Inch Galbralin and eventually took power of the Red Tower...a council of southern clans from old Strathclyde region centered in Bombardton. This created Cenel Galbrath, which married into Cenel Donall until they were able to claim the Lordship.

Just so you understand whats what man...

Also, there are seven major Tuatha in the Lordship, currently. I'll send you the map of their territories soon...

Abbot MacFhionghuin looked out the windows of the council chamber towards the bay, and sighed

"That Clan Donald," he thought, "Arrogant Arses, the whole lot."

He pushed his robes aside, and sat down staring at the Horizon. Far off in the Distance he could see the Free Land of Lalaii, and he knew that beyond that was Tirean na Mara.

The last Council session had been a disaster, only bickering, bickering, and more bickering. MacDonald of the Isthmus was stark raving mad as far as MacFhionghuin was concerned. Upset over a few lost fishing and merchant vessels? Prepostorous. MacNeil of Barra's men occasionally get over zealous and raid a couple foreign vessels, and vice versa. It was nothing to get angry about.

But there was more, he just needed to think it through. It was true that Tirean na Maran vessels were become more brazen, attacking ships closer to the straight. It was even said that one was seen from the shores of the Cuillin Hills, though it was probably just a merchant. Besides, it's been Decades since the raiders attacked the mainland. Not since Creach Mhor 40 years earlier had raiders set foot on the Isthmus. They'd be foolish to try again wouldn't they? He could still smell the scent of battle, feel the grip of the claymore in his hand . . . but that was ages ago, he was just a young man and his father, God rest his soul, was still Abbot. The Death of the Lord of the Isles in that battle put an end to the raids, and precipitated the whole mess that was just now coming to a conclusion in Tirean na Mara.

And MacDonald, why was he so riled up about the news of tuath Galbrath's ascension to the lordship? Admitedly, the council had been sending gold to a rival claimant, but Galbrath didn't seem to dangerous at the moment. Intelligent, they patiently waited for their time to strike, unlike Clan Donald. MacDonald's could be mischevious though, they were Gaels after all. He must have some ulterior motive . . .

He snapped out of his trance, looked back to his desk, saw the mountain of Foreign Policy paper work he still had to do.

"Ellington!"

In rushed a scrawny Saxon, nearly triping over his attendant robes.

"Fetch me some Coffee would you? With a nip of Whisky?"

Ellington stared back blankely.

"Coffee Elington, COFFEE . . .CO-FFEE!"

A flash of recognition flashed over Elington's face as he rushed out the door to do his bidding.

MacFhionghuin sighed as he started to look over his papers. Why was it so hard for the Saxon to learn a civilized language like Gaelic? Or even French for that matter? But that was a thought for another day . . .

From Craig Cairn, the eastern most point on Balmordan, one can see in the distance a lone, low isle rising from the waves of the Inner Sea. It was to here the boats of Tirean na Mara set out for, on a cold fall day. From the windswept rocks of Aman, to the great ports of Skya, to the fishing villages of Benarra and Tollree...simple men boarded simple boats, noble men boarded great boats...christians prayed and clutched crosses to their breasts for good weather, while the more pagan carried knotted string in a pocket. Many carried both, for the People of the Sea were a superstitious lot.

So the People came. From the sea lochs and firths, the seamen carried their clan chiefs towards Mora. Few remembered the last time a gathering had been called and listened to the old bards harking back to the last coronation, of the doomed Lord Alasdair Madden. For forty years since his death at the battle of Creach Mhor, the clans had fought and ravaged eahc others lands for the title of Lordship. With the dominion of Cenel Galbrath complete over most of the Western Isles, the clans of the Eastern Isles and all corners of Tirean na Mara were ordered to come to Bunadd, to visit the first coronation in over sixty years and give their loyalty to the next Lord.

It just so happened that a simple sheperd from Balmordan was grazing his sheep near Craig Cairn. Spotting a ship sail, he made for the point, to the pile of rocks...over the sea, ships crawled like ants and the flags of the clans flew together once again.

Somewhere in the distance, in a ruined castle that was Donald Dubh's first stronghold, a man with glowing red hair watched the first ships arrive in the firth of Moran. His foot lay inches from a carved footprint in a fallen stone...the Stone of Destiny would soon again fullfil its ritual purpose, after so many years of waiting.

OOC: Damn! This happened to me before...my accounts seem to mix and sometimes I log on under the wrong one. That was me, just so you know Aandra.

(IC):

Rory MacNeil had been sailing most of his life. "Well," he mused " I guess I can't really call it sailing anymore . . . " It was 30 years ago when his father switched to steam, he was only a lad in his midteens then. All the richer fishermen had already switched, but being of modest means, it always took his family a little longer to get the new things.

"Well, if it's not sailing, then what are you bloody well going to call it? Steaming? Not even a sassenach would call it that . . ." He always muttered to himself on these long voyages. He and his crew were almost 400 kilometres from the Straights of Lalai he reckoned. They were a little closer to The Lands of the Sea than he would have liked, but the fish were peculiar this year, and the other fishermen said the schools were moving North.

He'd been nervous going to sea these past couple weeks. Well, nervous wasn't quite the right word, Gaels were never nervous . . . Anxious, yes, that was more fitting.

His cousin was killed two weeks ago. Now this wasn't that much of a loss, the Gaels tended to be a virile race, and he had more cousins than he could count. In fact, he didn't like this cousin very much at all, an upstart, tried making moves on the wife on more than one occasion . . . and he recieved welts from a well weilded cast Iron pot on more than one occasion.

But it was the way that he disapeared that was the kicker. He just disappeared, in the finest weather that you could possibly imagine. The talk was that it was the Faeries doing, seduced him right to the bottom of the sea. Now, the Abbot didn't take too kindly to to faery talk, but . . .

He glanced up out of his reverie. Damnation! Fog was rolling in! He crossed himself, and then did it again for good measure. The fog meant that he was closer to Tirean na Mara than he thought.

It's not that they were bad people, they were Gaels after all and not saxons. Rory spit to the side, as did nearly everyone he knew whenever they even thought of the Saxon. It was this whole lordship buisness, they used to be too busy fighting amongst themselves to do much raiding. But now . . . well, the men of the sea tell stories . . .

All of a sudden he heard the bell. He looked up, and his first mate was ringing the warning bell like crazy, he looked around, and then suddenly he saw it.

A vessel bearing the flag of the lands of the sea was bearing down on them. it did NOT look friendly. He crossed himself again - one more time and they'd make him an abbot, maybe even a saint he thought wrily.

He grabbed his claymore in one hand, his dirk in the other. He could see his shipmates doing like wise. He, like all Barra seamen recognised the type of ship - raider. Probably even built on Barra herself. Not steam driven, she counted chiefly on the prevailing winds, but could sneak up on you in the fog mighty easy - as Rory had just discovered.

Cursed like a Saxon! The raider probably saw his steam trail from miles away and followed the fog in right behind him . . .

The raider was close now, they'd be boarding soon . . . well, those sassenach's wouldn't be getting him without a fight . . . .

"Buaidh No Pas!"

"Victory or Death"

He shouted the battle cry of his clan until he grew hoarse. He was too old for this, but he could feel the blood fury coursing through his veins.

He cut down the first attacker before he even landed, and smashed his dirk into the side of a second as he pushed him overboard to the depths of the sea. He could feel his blood rising, he was invincible, even Shoney could not touch him . . .

All of a sudden he felt weak, he looked down at the crimson stain spreading across his chest. He looked up, and saw one of the raiders desperately trying to reload their century old weapon. A smoothbore musket, it was more than a century old, and it was a miracle it hit him even at this close range.

He saw his first mate decapitate the raider with the musket, only to suffer the same fate seconds later. Rory fell to his knees, trying to decided which god he should be praying to. The Abbot would be Angry at him if he chose any other thant the God, and so would his wife . . . and he crossed himself one last time.

*********************************************************

A seagull, lost in the fog flew lazily overhead. It couldn't truly comprehend the violence that was going on below it, but it knew enough to keep it's distance.

Then, the sounds of battle grew silent, only for a new sound to takes it's place . . .

"Galbrath! Galbrath! Galbrath! . . ."

The priest handed the red haired man a wand, and on his other side one of his clansmen handed him his sword.

The stone accepted the foot, its surface smoothed by centuries of noble feet. With white wand and claymore in hand, Keppin Galbrath turned clockwise three times each to the cheer of thousands of Islanders who crowded beneath the ruins of Black Donald's first castle in this new land. Their voices carried into the firth of Moran, which bristled with masts and steam pipes.

"Mac a Bhreatnaich! Mac a Bhreatnaich! Mac a Bhreatnaich!"

They cried with the voices of their ancestors, the warrior poets of old. They cried the name of their new Tighearna, Keppin Ruadh, Red haired Keppin. They feared the man, respected the man, loved the man and honoured the man, all the while whispering in pubs and their keeps that his real name was Red-handed Keppin for the bloody work he had wrought in the Western Isles.

Before moving from the Stone of Destiny, Keppin looked out at his gathered chiefs, and said but one sentence.

"Let us all now be free, to live and die as we wish, and watch the grace of God fall everyday in the West."

And the men just cheered more for it.

One clan had not made it to the coronation however. The Madden's of Finnreggan, in Uist Nuadh, had not arrived and Keppin was worried for them. Cenel Madden had been the supporters of Cenel Galbrath in the Eastern Isles and their Chief, Randal Madden, was the father of one of his childhood friends who had been fostered at Inch Galbralin.

So when it became known that the Chief's sail had been attacked by a great Isthmus Steam boat and the old chief lay in the dark waters of the Inner Sea, Keppin Mac a Bhreatnaich, Triath nan Tirean na Mara(Lord of the Lands of the Sea) became very angry indeed.

The Duc D'Anville, better known as the Black Marquis, slowly sat down. He sipped his claret, and lightly set it down upon his magnificently etched tea stand. It had been in his family for generations, and had been brought across the ocean after his ancestors were banished from the old world into the new.

His liege servant had come in moments before, carrying the morning's news. The headlines were blazoned "LES TENSIONS ENTRE L'ISTHMUS ET TIREAN NA MARA DEVIENENT GRAVE!". He read the headlines twice, and then skimmed the article.

He sat the paper down, and walked over to his marble fireplace, pausing for a moment to experience the luxuriousness of his new persian rug. As he stared into the flames, a plan started to form in his mind.

His nation's eastern border was shared with the Isthmus, and just beyond that border lay some of the most fertile farmland in the entire region. Machair land they called it. His family had coveted that region for generations, eyeing it with envy. With the Machair land under The Black Marquis' benevolent control, he would no longer need to import food to feed his peoples. Not only that, but it would add another source of income to his nation, which had recently undergone a period of intense industrialization.

And the manner that it was to come to pass was now appearing evident. Those two foolish Gaelic nations are too full of pride to back down, tensions will rise, and Tirean na Mara will once again begin raiding the coasts of the Istmus. That in turn will tie up the navy and militia of the Isthmus, trying to deal with the raiders. Then, when the time is right . . .grève surprise!

The militia will be too busy defending the coast from the raiders to adequately deal with an invasion from the West. They can't denude their cities of troops to deal with such a invasion, without risking a disastrous raider assault on one of their cities.

Once the city of Peticodiac is captured, we can negotiate a quick peace, and let The Istmus and Tirean Na Mara continue to duke it out like they have for generations.

The citizens of peticodiac being for the most part ethnically French, will rejoice to have a Strong French Leader as their ruler instead of that bumbling council of idiots that they currently serve. Besides, what we're really doing is liberating them, and how could world opinion not be on our side?

He walked back to his tea stand, took another sip from his claret. It was flat, but he didn't notice, he was too caught up in his own machinations.

"Maybe Tirean na Mara would like an Alliance" he mused ". . . a Pact of Perpetual Friendship perhaps? Along with some sort mutual protection pact of course . . . Une Entente Cordial?"

Yes, he liked the sound of that . . . very much indeed.